The Wedding Night

The forest villa was tucked deep in the Adirondacks—cedar beams, stone fireplace, floor-to-ceiling windows framing nothing but moonlit pines. No Avengers, no missions, no world to save. Just Peter Parker, 18, and Maria Hill, 42, finally married in a secret ceremony officiated by a sleepy justice of the peace who’d never ask questions.

Now, midnight. A single bottle of 2005 Château Margaux breathed on the oak table, two crystal glasses half-full, crimson catching the firelight. Maria stood by the window in her wedding attire: a tailored ivory blazer-dress, cinched at the waist, hem skimming mid-thigh. Stockinged feet in strappy silver heels. Peter—barefoot, shirtless, black tuxedo pants unbuttoned—watched her like she was the only star in the sky.

“Come here, husband,” she said, voice low, amused.

Peter crossed the room, the pine floor cool under his soles. When he reached her, Maria lifted her left foot, heel glinting, and pressed the arch against his chest. “Kneel.”

He dropped instantly. The heel dug lightly into his sternum as he kissed the inside of her ankle, lips brushing silk stocking. She tasted like champagne and forest air.

“Good boy.” She let him worship—slow kisses up her calf, behind her knee, the soft spot where stocking met skin. When he reached the lace garter, she tugged it down with her toes, letting it snap against his cheek.

Maria stepped out of her heels, now barefoot in sheer stockings. She poured fresh wine, took a sip, then bent to kiss Peter—deep, deliberate, letting the Margaux flood his mouth. Their tongues tangled, wine and heat and promise.

She pushed him back until he sat on the thick bearskin rug before the fire. Maria straddled his lap, blazer still buttoned, skirt riding high. She guided his hands to the buttons. “Undress me. Slowly.”

Peter’s fingers trembled as he freed each pearl button. The blazer parted, revealing a white lace corset—breasts spilling over, nipples dark against the fabric. No panties.

Maria took his hand, pressed it between her thighs. She was already soaked. “Feel what marrying you does to me.”

He groaned, fingers sliding through slick folds. She rocked once, then pulled away. “Not yet.”

She stood, stepped back, and lifted one foot to the low table. “Take the stocking off. With your teeth.”

Peter crawled forward, mouth tracing the seam up her thigh. He caught the lace edge at her hip, tugged slowly. The stocking peeled down like liquid silk, revealing smooth skin. He kissed every inch exposed—ankle, calf, the sensitive hollow behind her knee. When both stockings lay discarded, Maria extended her bare foot.

“Suck.”

Peter took her big toe into his mouth, tongue swirling. She moaned softly, fingers threading through his hair. He moved to the arch, the ball, the delicate skin between toes—worshipful, reverent.

Maria’s breath hitched. She pulled him up by the hair, kissed him hard, tasting herself on his tongue. Then she pushed him flat on the rug.

“Pants off.”

Peter shoved them down, cock springing free—hard, flushed, leaking. Maria knelt between his legs, poured a ribbon of wine down his shaft. The cool liquid made him gasp. She licked it clean—slow, deliberate—tongue tracing every vein, swirling around the head until he whimpered.

When he was trembling, she climbed over him, knees on either side of his head. “Hands behind your back.”

Peter obeyed. Maria lowered herself until her pussy hovered just above his mouth. “Make me squirt, baby. Earn your wedding night.”

He dove in—tongue flat and broad, then flicking her clit in tight circles. Maria rocked against his face, one hand braced on the mantel, the other tangled in his hair. She tasted like wine and salt and power.

Minutes blurred. Peter’s jaw ached, but he didn’t stop—sucking, licking, sliding two fingers inside her, curling just right. Maria’s thighs trembled.

“Fuck—right there—”

Her hips snapped forward. A low cry tore from her throat as she came—hard. Clear fluid gushed over Peter’s tongue, chin, chest. He drank what he could, the rest soaking the rug.

Maria shuddered through the aftershocks, then slid down his body, impaling herself on his cock in one slick motion. No barrier, just heat and tightness. She rode him slow at first, blazer hanging open, breasts bouncing with each roll of her hips.

Peter’s hands found her waist. “Maria—please—”

She leaned down, kissed him—wine, squirt, love. “Come inside your wife.”

He thrust up once, twice—then spilled deep, pulsing, her name a broken prayer. Maria clenched around him, milking every drop, then collapsed onto his chest.

They lay tangled, fire crackling, forest silent. Maria traced lazy circles on his skin.

“Forever, Peter.”

He kissed her temple. “Forever, Mrs. Parker.”

Outside, snow began to fall—soft, secret, endless.